


enter without so much as knocking

by onetiredboy



Series: Lilith & Ophelia [2]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Future Fic, Other, domestic jupeter, established jupeter, inlaw shenanigans, it's the return of my oc: nureyevs mom, this is self indulgent & fun & an excuse to write, what if nureyev actually met his mom haha jk jk unless?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25164805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetiredboy/pseuds/onetiredboy
Summary: It's years after Peter tells the story of the necklace he owns to Juno before he gets Rita to discover the truth behind it. The story he uncovers changes his life forever, but not nearly as much as the discovery that one of his mothers is still alive.A Sequel to On the Shadow of a Brahmese Child.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Series: Lilith & Ophelia [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595923
Comments: 19
Kudos: 87





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> i created this document on thursday the 9th of january 2020 & then today i realised it was thursday the 9th of july 2020 and i just HAD to publish PART of it. it'll probably be 3-4 chapters long, but fuck knows when it'll update. 
> 
> it's named this bc of the way ophelia nureyev enters peter's life & changes everything forever without so much as knocking, but also because this poem makes me think of peter: 
> 
> however, what he enjoyed most of all was when on a clear night  
> he could see a pure unadulterated fringe of sky, littered with stars   
> no-one had got around to fixing up yet: he'd watch them  
> circling about in luminous groups like kids at the circus  
> who never go quite close enough to the elephant to get kicked.
> 
> anyway, pretty soon he was old enough to be  
> realistic like every other godless  
> money-hungry back-stabbing miserable  
> so-and-so, and then it was goodbye stars and the soft  
> cry in the corner when no-one was looking 
> 
> \-- enter without so much as knocking, by bruce dawe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also! CWs: anxiety attacks, vomiting mention, mention of not eating (due to nerves).

“Honey. …Honey? Are you listening? Hey. Honey?”

When looking back on it, the first thing Peter Nureyev would be able to remember of the day was a sudden warmth – five rough fingers on his knee.

He flinches, and Juno swears quietly.

“I’m sorry, you just weren’t responding, I—are you okay? Do you need some fresh air?”

“I—yes, I’m fine, sorry,” Peter offers him one of his very best winning smiles – one that he knows Juno knows is faked, but Juno takes it anyway, doesn’t even call him out on it.

“I don’t know if I’d be,” Juno says instead, seriously. His eyebrows are furrowed, his hand coming to rest on Nureyev’s arm. All that _concern_ is too much right now, so Peter stands up.

“Fresh air sounds like a good idea,” he says.

The difficulty is that he is having a very hard time disappearing. Not in the physical sense, but in a more nuanced way. He tried the previous night – tried coming up with a name, imagined a backstory and a personality. Not for any particular reason outside of simply stretching his mental muscles. But the only backstory that came to him was one he learnt only a few days before: two women, a protest, a futile search. The only personality he could come up with was the one he’d been trapped with now for years: too honest, and loving, and so, so mentally weak. The only name: his own.

The difficulty is this: his name is Peter Nureyev, and today he is meeting his parent.

“Perhaps I simply shouldn’t be doing this on an empty stomach. I haven’t eaten all day. It’s probably what’s causing the nausea.”

“Yeah—well, that could just be the—could you slow _down?_ ” Juno wheezes, stopping in his tracks to put his hands on his knees, “Good fucking God, your legs are long.”

Peter glances down at his legs as if surprised to see them. It takes him a moment to remember why. His brain doesn’t seem to be cooperating well, or processing things very fast. Probably also another side effect of the empty stomach.

“Hey,” Juno straightens back up, “If you can’t do this—”

“Ah! There’s a food kiosk right over there. Come along, dear.”

“Peter, you’re not acting like yourself—”

“ _Well._ That’s not anything out of the ordinary, now, is it?”

“No, I mean, you’re being dismissive, and all uptight and commanding like you haven’t been since we met, and—goddamnit, you never settle for spaceport kiosk food!”

The man at the spaceport kiosk gives Juno an offended look. Peter hands a few creds over and chooses one of the plain brown boxes from the display fridge. It ends up being small cubes of unidentifiable meat.

Peter blinks and he’s sitting on a bench beside Juno and Juno is saying, “…really think you’re not up for this.”

 _Ah,_ Peter thinks, used enough by now to stress-related dissociation not to pay any mind to the gap in his memory.

Juno continues, “You’re really starting to worry me. Maybe you were right when you said meeting your family would cause more trouble than it was worth and we should just—”

“No,” Peter says. It comes out louder and sharper than he thought, and this time Juno flinches.

“Perhaps this was a mistake,” Peter continues, at a calmer, more reasonable volume, “And perhaps you’re right, I shouldn’t have asked Rita to find out. But once I knew who I _was_ , who my _parents_ were—Juno, how could I let this opportunity pass me by? What would you do in this situation?”

Juno sighs, “I… you know the answer to that. I’d be doing exactly the same thing.”

Peter smiles, “I know. And that’s why I love you.” He leans over to peck him on the lips.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Juno mutters, but he’s smiling. He puts a warm, steadying hand on Peter’s back, “But let’s try and concentrate on working through your nerves in a little more rationalised manner, okay?”

“Yes, you’re right. No more unhealthy coping mechanisms. Except—excuse me one moment, would you, dear? I’ll be right back,” Peter requests in a gentle, disarming voice, and walks away from the bench they’re sitting on.

(Juno waits about a minute before he suddenly says “wait—fuck” and runs after him.)

“Goddamnit,” Juno pants when Peter hears him arrive, his shoes squeaking as he stops at the bin that Peter is busy vomiting into.

“Let me guess,” the person who was smoking their cigarette at this bin when Peter came throwing himself at it says to Juno as Juno pulls Peter to his feet, “You ate the kiosk food.”

“Hey, fuck you, buddy,” Juno growls, and puts his hand on Peter’s back.

The person just snorts and puts both their hands up. They butt out their cigarette and chuck it into the bin, and then walk away, throwing a “space-travel amateurs” over their shoulder.

“Well,” Peter says, and then feels a little weak, so he leans his elbows on the side of the bin again, “Eating didn’t cure my nausea.”

“That’s because you weren’t feeling sick because you were hungry, you’re fucking shaking in your shoes, Peter!” Juno sighs in frustration, clenching a hand in his curls. It was long established that _Peter_ is safe enough on its own for Juno to use quietly when they were in public, but hearing his name in any form makes his stomach clench again. Not for the usual reasons – it just reminds him of why he’s here. Why he’s here.

“Oh, _God_ ,” Peter shoots up from the bin suddenly, “I’m meeting my mother.”

“Not this again—”

“Good God—who let me choose these shoes!?”

“Honey, you look fine.”

“Fine?! Could _anybody_ look fine in _these_?! They’re practically _sneakers_ , Juno.”

“They’re flats. Normal, everyday flats. And they look nice!”

“I am meeting my _actual_ mother in less than half an hour and I’ve just vomited into a spaceport bin.” Peter slams his hands down on the rim of the bin and looks around wildly, “I need to find mints.”

“No—okay, sweetheart, you’re fine! Here, let me smell.”

Peter makes a face.

“Fine. Let me kiss you, then,” Juno turns him in his hands and Peter sighs, leaning down to kiss him.

They kiss for a moment, and then Juno pulls back. He nods slowly, “Ooo-kay… let’s… find you some mints.”

Peter whimpers and lets Juno lead him weakly to the spaceport convenience store. He eats about half the packet of mints, realises his stomach is weak enough already that eating a whole packet of mints isn’t a brilliant idea, and then lets Juno lead him back to a bench near the baggage claim.

Peter hangs his head in his hands, “What you must think of me right now…”

Juno laughs and leans against Peter’s shoulder. “This is… kind of perfect, actually. Pass me a mint.”

Peter leans back against the bench and unclips the mint tin with his thumbnail, holding it out to Juno. Juno struggles to get his fingers in the tin for a moment, and then takes it from Peter’s hand and empties some out into his palm.

“What do you mean, ‘perfect’?” Peter asks when he gets the tin back.

“Not perfect that you’re anxious, of course, and I’m worried about you. But… I don’t know. This kind of domestic thing. Worrying over each other’s outfits and how we smell and stuff. Uh. That probably sounds stupid,” Juno smiles bashfully at him, “Sorry.”

Peter leans over and kisses Juno on the temple, “There’s nobody I’d rather go through this with, my dear.”

“Love you,” Juno mumbles.

“I love you too. And I think my mother will, too.”

Nureyev manages to stay silent after saying that for a whole five seconds. It’s basically a record.

Then he jerks away from Juno, “Oh!” he laments, “What is my mother going to _think_ of me? I’m poor, I’m an interplanetarily-wanted criminal, I’m a nervous wreck—”

“You’ve already been in contact her over comms, you _know_ what she’s going to think. She’s going to think that you’re her son,” Juno interrupts him. “And she’s going to think your moral core reminds her of just what she was like when she was young. She’s going to think you’ve got friends and a home and that’s all she wants for you, and she’s going to think you’re strong and beautiful. Because that’s what everyone thinks when they see you.”

Peter’s shoulders slump. There are tears in his eyes suddenly. “Juno…”

“I guess,” Juno adds. “She could also think none of those things. I really don’t have much of an idea of what good parents are meant to be like.”

Peter puts his head in his hands again.

* * *

Mrs. Ophelia Nureyev, war veteran and criminal jailed for the crime of caring too much about her wife and son, had grey hair spattered through with some black streaks.

Mr. Peter Nureyev, teenage revolutionary and criminal not-yet-jailed for thousands of petty (and not so petty) thefts committed across the galaxy, had black hair streaked with grey.

It’s too much to think about at first: the way her eyes are shaped just like his, are exactly the same colour despite the added wrinkles. The sharpness to her cheekbones, evident under sagged skin. It’s so much that Peter flounders for a moment, his heart in his mouth, before he bows low and stays there.

A hand on his shoulder raises him up, and then travels to his face to hold him there.

“Peter,” Ophelia says. No sob leaves her, but silent tears track down her wrinkled face.

She pulls him into her, nursing him like one would a small child, and Peter isn’t sure what to do. Hug her back, he supposes, so he wraps his arms loosely around her. His mind is slipping again. He forces it to stay put.

“Mother,” he says, stiffly. Clears his throat and tries again, “Mom. I…”

What does he say? He missed her? He hadn’t, really. He’d thought he had a father all his life, and now he has two Moms, and only one alive. He’d never wanted to search for her, never really thought about his biological family too hard. He’d had Mag. And then, well. He’d thought his family dead.

But this woman is, undoubtedly, his mother. He tucks his face into her neck and closes his eyes, almost surprised at the sensation of tears on the bridge of his nose.

They stay locked in embrace until Ophelia’s tears have run out and she leans back, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “My little boy,” she whispers, “Look at you, all grown up.”

Peter shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. His mind thinks of his gangly limbs, his tacky fashion. Then Ophelia points to the floral pattern of his shirt, and says, “Dahlias. They were your mother’s favourite flower. She used to wear things like this all the time.”

Peter’s mind bursts. Suddenly, he realises, there are answers to every question he’s had. There are missing pieces to be found, habits to be picked apart and traced back to a source. He wants to know who he got his love for knowledge from, where the roots of his hopelessly romantic side lie.

And speaking of—

“Mother, this,” Peter steps back from her gaze to indicate to Juno, “Is my fiancée. Juno Steel. I didn’t mention him earlier only because thought it would be nicer for you to meet him in person than hear about him over the phone. I asked him to come with me so the two of you can meet. And also for emotional support, which it turns out I needed quite a bit.” His laugh comes out a little strained.

Ophelia looks from Peter to Juno with the kind of stunned air that makes him think he introduced a new person way too soon, but it quickly settles, when Juno takes her hand, into something much worse – a look of appraisal.

If it unnerves Juno, he doesn’t show it. He shakes Ophelia’s hand, “Mrs. Nureyev. It’s—uh, an honour, really. Peter’s best thing that’s ever happened to me. You, uh. Should be very proud.”

It comes out of him so smoothly Peter thinks it must be rehearsed, and he swells with pride.

A second later, when Ophelia still hasn’t released Juno’s hand, nor stopped staring him down like she’s trying to read his mind, the feeling shrinks into his chest. Juno’s smile starts to waver, just a little bit, when Ophelia breaks away suddenly, looking at Nureyev again.

“Oh, Peter,” she enthuses, “All grown up _and_ engaged to such a polite young man. You--,” she stops, suddenly, and stares at him for a long time. Then a small smile crosses her face, “You smile just like your mother.”

Peter puts his fingers to his lips and feels out the shape of the smile on his face.

“I don’t think anybody’s ever called me polite before,” Juno mumbles. “And I don’t think I qualify for young either. I’m forty-six.”

Ophelia squints at Peter, “Have you had your teeth sharpened?”

“Let’s—let’s get home,” Peter says suddenly, and hooks his arm around his mother’s, “We have a lot to catch up on and this isn’t quite the location for it.”

The car they have is actually quite nice. That’s because it’s fairly new, acquired after several weeks of arguments about second-hand cars that all looked suspiciously like Juno’s old one. Juno had let Peter talk him into buying a new car eventually. They compromised on letting it be the same brand as Juno’s last, but on getting it personalised plates and painting it green. The Ruby 8 wasn’t a mythical supercar, but it sure did the job.

“So how long have the two of you been engaged?”

Peter glances to Juno in the front seat, but his eyes remain fixed on the road. If his knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, Peter’s not at the right angle to see it. He looks back at his mother and says, cautiously, “Almost three years.”

“That long? When’s the wedding?”

“We haven’t settled on a date yet,” Juno pipes up, a little too shortly.

“Mm,” Ophelia leans back in her seat, a funny look on her face. Her wrinkled hand covers Peter’s own on her arm, and then the look dissipates and she smiles up at him, “Your mother and I had no patience like that. We married six months after I proposed.”

 _Your mother and I._ How strange those words sound, how they reverberate around his head and try to find a place within his puzzle-piece picture of himself where they fit. “How wonderful,” Peter says eventually, and decides to change the topic from him. “I suppose you two knew you were right for each other the moment you met eyes?”

“Oh no,” Ophelia smiles, “We were awful, at the start. Neither of us knew how to admit it to each other. It only got anywhere when she ended up slipping tokens of affection into my pockets when I wasn’t looking.”

“Sounds like somebody I know,” Juno mutters from the front seat. Peter beams.

“So what do you do for a living, Peter?”

The smile melts off of Peter’s face.

“Well. I-I’m retired, actually. I made well enough in the last few years of my career to settle down with Juno, and so, after we took a year off to travel, we came back to one of our favourite spots close to Mars and bought a little place.”

“What did you do before you retired?” Ophelia presses, and Nureyev laughs and waves a hand.

“Oh, nothing significant,” he says. “Field work for… various organisations.”

He thinks he’s escaped the question, apart from way his mother gives him that same odd look, a look that strikes him as so vividly familiar he spends the next five minutes in silence trying to figure out where he’s seen it before.

(It hits him after a moment – the mirror. And he knows that look so well that it makes some part of his stomach sink with dread: she’s sharper than she looks).


	2. The Complication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me so goddamn long to finish this chapter i did not like writing it but here i am ! and i think it is good ! finally some domesticity

Juno and Peter’s apartment is by no means the richest place on Siyinqaba, one of the manmade moons of Jupiter, but Peter’s insistence on having a place with a balcony and grand curtains and Juno’s love for the cricket banh mi place at the foot of the complex makes it perfect for them.

Ophelia brought big suitcases with her, but Juno lifts them with ease over one shoulder while he unlocks the door with his other hand, making Peter glow with pride and admiration, especially when his mother compliments his chivalry. Then Juno shows her to her room and Peter busies himself with fixing the three of them a drink.

Peter spins and almost drops his tray, “Ah!”

His mother is standing on the other side of the kitchen bench, looking at him with one of _his_ looks. The feeling unsettles him. He shakes it off and places the tray down with a careful laugh, “You startled me.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I… don’t recall you asking me one,” Peter says cordially.

“Refresh an old woman’s memory. After we lost you…”

When Peter first contacted his mother ( _Hello? Am I speaking to an Ophelia Nureyev? Are you sitting down? I think you might like to...)_ they’d done the majority of their catching up through a series of comms calls, twice every week for a month or so. The uncomfortable majority of their conversation – details of whether or not Peter remembered anything about his family, hearing the story of how he was lost, explaining how he managed to survive, why he’d never reached out before – was finished then, but there were still gaps. Large, Mag-shaped gaps and Guardian-Angel-shaped ones.

It’s not that he thinks she wouldn’t be happy, probably, to hear of his part in the downfall of that wretched system, it’s just…

It’s… just… a lot. A lot of extra emotion, confusion, pieces to fit into what is already an overcomplicated story.

Nureyev clears his throat, “I… grew up on the streets for some time, then I was taken in by a mentor until he… passed, and then I left Brahma and lived payout to payout until I ended up on Mars – Juno’s Martian, you see – and I worked with some of Juno’s friends for a while, until we split off on our own to settle down,” Peter waves over the _specifics_ with and elegant twist of his wrist, and passes a drink to his mom.

“And what does Juno do?”

“He was a detective. That’s how we met.”

She raises her eyebrows, “You had a case for him?”

“Not… exactly,” Peter mumbles into his drink.

Juno walks into the room from the bedroom, and Peter’s whole body relaxes with relief, feeling her concentrated scrutiny dilute. “There you are, dear. I got you a whiskey.”

Juno moves around the kitchen bench, putting a comforting hand on Peter’s back as he does so. The touch is more instinct than anything, the learned habits of old couples. He picks up his drink, “Thought you were meant to be supporting my efforts to cut down on alcohol?” he teases.

“I am. You’re limited to three, so drink wisely.”

“Mm,” Juno drinks.

“So how exactly _did_ the two of you meet?” Ophelia asks.

Juno glances at Peter out of the corner of his eye. Then, before Peter can say anything, he puts down his drink and says, “I did a case for him once. I used to be a P.I.”

Ophelia frowns at Peter, “I thought you just said—”

“That’s a very liberal use of the phrase,” Peter laughs very long and high-pitched, “See, well, it was more like I _helped_ him on a case—”

Juno snorts. Peter elbows him discreetly.

“Ow!” Juno hisses. So much for being discreet.

Ophelia glances between the two of them, and narrows her eyes, “Why do I get the feeling I’m being lied to by my own son and future son-in-law?”

Juno glances up at Peter, his body tense and his eye trusting. He’s waiting for Peter to set the boundaries. Peter spares a moment to breathe in and feel Juno’s presence, solid, and trusting, and fully supportive, beside him. Juno, whose commitment to honesty and authenticity has been Peter’s biggest inspiration for nearly seven years, now.

Peter breathes out, “I… believe I told you about some of the regrettable methods I had to resort to to survive.”

“You said you’d spent a lot of time thieving in your youth. I remember.”

“Yes. Well, that was… not untrue, but rather more… a downplay.” Peter shifts uncomfortably against the bench, “You see, thievery was very much the one thing I was good at and, well… I was very good at it. And so, after I left Brahma, I… made it into a career. Being hired to steal things without asking why or who for. Juno and I met because I stole something from him.”

“By distracting me with a kiss, too, you bastard,” Juno says, and nudges him with his hip, but the look in his eye is overwhelmingly fond, and Peter knows he’s done the right thing.

Peter smiles and puts an arm around his waist. Then he glances reluctantly back at his mother, “I hope that isn’t too difficult to hear.”

Ophelia snorts derisively, “You’re talking to a seventy-year-old war veteran, Peter, who lost both her son and her wife. There’s very little you can tell me that is too difficult to hear.” She swirls her glass.

Peter sighs a breath of relief.

Ophelia drinks and then lowers her glass and nods her head to Juno, “So you put him on the right track, eventually?”

“Ehhh… More like he pulled me off the rails.”

“Juno and I ended up working together as part of a team of elite thieves that targeted corrupt pharmacorporations,” Peter explains.

Juno shrugs, “Working in law enforcement on Mars was ethically dubious at best. At least with him I knew I’d be doing some actual good, for once.”

“You did plenty of good before then, love,” Peter soothes.

“Well,” Ophelia says, “It’s certainly more exciting than meeting in University.”

Juno pats his hands against the kitchen counter suddenly and leans back, “You two go catch up more in the lounge. I’m gonna get started on dinner.”

“Juno’s a chef,” Peter adds, gleefully.

“I wouldn’t say that—I mean,” Juno hunches a shoulder to his ear, “I did a few courses after we moved here, _technically_ I’m qualified, but that doesn’t really mean…”

“Don’t be modest,” Peter leans over and kisses his cheek, “He’s wonderful,” he adds to his mother. “Let’s go sit down and leave the master to his work.”

Peter and Juno’s apartment isn’t huge, but its largest room is easily the lounge. Ophelia steps past Peter into it, and makes a beeline for the glass doors on the other side, which open out to a balcony. Nureyev peers past her and cringes at the sight of an empty wine bottle and two red-stained glasses left on the table outside, some rubbish they’d forgotten in their haste to clean up this morning.

He’s about to ask her if she’d like to step outside to see the view when she turns, and slowly examines the room.

It’s not a bad room, Peter thinks. Domestic, even – in one corner Peter’s favourite dress shoes lie at the foot of a coat stand on which hangs Juno’s long-out-of-commission shabby trench coat, laser-blast holes and all. Symbols of love and partnership are all around, signs of a happily-lived life.

Still, his skin prickles as she looks closely at a piece of objectively terrible art on one wall. It’s one of Juno’s he picked up at an old thrift store (some of his old habits, apparently, can’t be shaken, and Peter has been forced to live with this one). Then she glides on, to the monitor screen on the wall, which is currently simulating a window with a view into a field of flowers while it’s in sleep mode.

Around the monitor screen are shelves lined with various tchotchkes, some of Peter’s rare book finds and assorted treasures, and a polished knife in a carved wooden holder that was an engagement present from Vespa. Then there is the photo album.

It’s not quite state of the art – a second-hand find of Juno’s that he set up one day without Peter’s immediate knowledge (and more than a little help from Rita). It stands proudly on a shelf and cycles through photos from their travels. Peter hovers nervously over his mother’s shoulder as she watches it.

His heart pangs a little at the sight of a younger him, slimmer and more attractive, bridal style in Juno’s arms on a beach, one leg in a cast. A photo from a… more complicated time, one he looks back on now with a twinge of shame and the distinct and unnerving (if not familiar) feeling of being unable to recognise himself. Then the photo disappears, giving way to a waterfall on Lugao, Juno standing in front of it in a vibrant, incredibly tacky tourist shirt, both thumbs up. Then the view from the largest window on the Saturnian Ring Observation Station, Peter kissing Juno’s cheek in the foreground.

"You know that place is destroyed, now," she points at the photo, "Asteroid collision."

"I heard," Peter says, "It was a tragedy. We visited only six months before it happened."

As the photos cycle through, he answers more of her questions about their travels -- different places they stayed at, sights they saw, prices of hotel rooms and quality of cuisines. That is until the photo album cycles through to a few GIFs in a layout that Rita created for them years ago.

GIF one is of Juno pulling Peter forward by the shirt into a kiss in a park on Zorix 9X while a butterfly floats past the camera, GIF two is a two intertwined hands twisting to show off matching rings, and GIF three is a blurry loop of Rita jumping in the air with the words ‘CONGRATS ON YOUR ENGAGEMENT MISTAHS STEELS’ written on the bottom in pink, glittery, CGI cursive.

Ophelia stares at them. Nureyev feels his throat narrow.

“Three years is a long time to be engaged,” she finally says, turning around to face Peter at last.

“Yes, well,” Nureyev stammers, “It’s not that bad. We want to make sure it’s the perfect time, after all.”

She raises one eyebrow at him.

Nureyev clears his throat, “Why don’t we sit down, hm?”

“Is there any reason you’ve put it off for so long?”

Nureyev pats down a few cushions on the sofa and sits down on it. He waits until his mother joins him before he shrugs his shoulders in faux nonchalance, “Oh, things.”

“Things.”

“Trying to get friends together, organising a venue, flights from Mars and things, it’s just all… well, it’s all a lot of work, isn’t it?”

“I noticed you seemed uncomfortable when I brought the topic up earlier,” Ophelia says, and Nureyev hears her laying the same type of calm bait he has laid with his own voice in the minds of susceptible marks for decades.

That still doesn’t stop him from taking it, though. He bristles, “Juno and I are very much in love and happily engaged, thank you. He wouldn’t have said yes if—”

“Did you propose?” she cuts him off.

Nureyev tilts his chin up, “Yes.”

“Publicly?”

Nureyev hesitates, “…Yes. I… had some friends on a call at the time.”

Ophelia leans back in the couch cushions and simply raises her eyebrow again.

Panic runs down Peter’s spine for a moment. Then – a stroke of luck, perhaps – he hears the clatter of something in the kitchen and Juno’s voice mumbling to himself. The little burst of warmth in his chest thaws the icy feeling stiffening his shoulders.

Nureyev fixes Ophelia with a firm gaze, “I hardly think you have the authority to interfere in my engagement,” he says, a little darkly. “Juno and I have been through a lot together. This is not some… whirlwind romance that fell into place all at once. We have fought to get where we’ve gotten, and survived all the challenges in our way so far. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ophelia stares calmly back at him. Her face is still and unreadable. Then her eyes close, slowly, and she sighs.

“How much of your life I’ve missed,” she says, softly, opening her eyes again, and knits her wrinkled fingers over her knees. “Your schooling, your career… the blossoming of your relationship with Juno, with the others before him. The heartbreaks you’ve had to go through alone.”

Nureyev keeps staring at her, trying to shake off old feelings and experiences her words dredge up – old memories he’d packed away before healing, scratching at his skin like ghosts condemned to haunting him for as long as he refuses to settle their earthly business and let them move on.

“It is an odd thing, to feel as though you know your son and yet realise you do not know him at all,” Ophelia continues. “Forgive an old woman for trying to poke where she isn’t wanted in the one part of your life she gets to observe.”

Nureyev eyes her suspiciously for a moment longer. Then he also looks away, sits back in the couch. He packs the ghosts back into the haunted files in his mind and shakes them off, clearing his throat

“Perhaps I can assuage your fears,” he says to the room more than to her. “I know Juno. Better, perhaps, than anyone else. And he, in turn, knows me. Better, perhaps, than I know myself. We are entirely committed to one another.”

“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” Ophelia soothes him, “I can see how dearly you love him, Peter. I can see that he loves you, too. But marriage isn’t the be-all and end-all sign of love. How would you break it to your fiancé that you’re not comfortable with the idea of getting married, hm? Especially if he’s falsely believed you are for three years?”

“It’s not that hard to have a conversation,” Nureyev argues, a little frisson of fear sparking down his spine again, “I’d simply explain the situation.”

“What about being afraid that your fiancé will think you have doubts about the relationship?”

“Well, it... All problems can be solved through… talking,” Nureyev’s voice is a little less sure, now. He has… an unfortunate history with becoming a little insecure at times Juno has needed space from him, or flirted harmlessly with others.

“When’s the last time you talked about it?”

Nureyev doesn’t answer that. Truthfully, he’s been waiting for Juno to broach the topic with him. The last few times they talked, the conversation had been… tense. And Nureyev hadn’t wanted to push.

Ophelia seems to take his silence as an answer. She leans forward and puts a hand on his knee, “I’m not trying to tear apart your engagement. Just supplying some outsider perspective.”

“Babe?” Juno calls out from the kitchen, “Can you set the table?”

Not for the first time today, Juno’s interruption washes Peter with relief. “Excuse me,” he says, and stands up from the couch. “Please, help yourself to anything – the remote for the monitor is just beside the couch. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Peter slips out of the room and into the kitchen, where Juno has set out some glasses and plates on the bench. The moment Nureyev walks in, Juno steps towards him.

“Hey,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around Nureyev’s waist, “She seems kind of intense. Thought you might need an excuse to step away for a bit.”

Peter sighs, and wraps his arms around Juno’s neck. He presses their foreheads together. They hold each other in an embrace like that for a moment before Peter moves to press his lips to Juno’s head. “You are a gift unto this solar system, Juno Steel,” he mutters.

“That bad?” Juno asks, half joking and half concerned.

Peter grunts for an answer, “She’s asking about our wedding plans.”

He feels Juno’s body stiffen in his arms. Peter stills, then leans back slightly to meet Juno’s eyes, “Something the matter?”

“No, just,” Juno says, and then seems to falter over his words. He shrugs, “Are… you okay?”

“Are _you_?”

“Don’t deflect on me, Nureyev.”

“I’m not sure I’m the one deflecting,” Nureyev says, and steps back out of Juno’s arms, “Juno…”

“It’s nothing,” Juno says, quickly. “Just… the last thing I want is to have to be worried I’m going to make an enemy out of my mother-in-law, alright? Especially if she’s going to start putting pressure on us about the wedding. I mean, she _just_ got here.”

“She’s only trying to wrap her head around the situation,” Nureyev says, a little defensively. “And besides: I explained her that I have full confidence that we’re deeply in love with each other, and that I wouldn’t have proposed if it wasn’t what you wanted so there’s nothing to worry about.”

Juno’s turn to step back. A conflicted look flits over his face, “What?”

“What?” Nureyev echoes, some distant part of him acutely aware that he’s just made a terrible mistake.

“What… what do you mean, nothing to worry about? What’s she worried about?” Juno’s frown starts to deepen on his face, and then he cocks his head, “What are _you_ worried about?”

“I—” Peter glances around the room desperately, as if casing it for escape routes, “I’m not worried about anything, Juno, I just said that." Then he hesitates, "Is there... something I should be worried about?”

"No--" Juno says, quickly, "No. Of course not."

"Right. Well, then... that's settled," Nureyev says.

"Yeah," Juno looks at him a second longer, his mouth down-turned at the corner and wrinkles exaggerated by his frown, clearly unsettled.

“Juno,” Peter says again. “She said herself that she can tell we’re utterly committed to each other. She’s as excited for the wedding as we are.”

Which is what makes Juno’s eye skitter away from him suddenly. His shoulders hunch a little as he looks past Nureyev to the wall. “Right,” he says. “Yeah.”

A timer goes off on the oven. Juno clears his throat and turns his back to Nureyev to deal with it, swiping oven mitts off the countertop as he goes.

Nureyev watches him in somewhat dumbfounded silence. Something sick is coiling in his gut. Then Juno turns to face him again, holding the dish he’d retrieved from the oven, and Peter quickly drops his eyes to the kitchenware set out for him to set the table with.

He tries not to notice the itching feeling of being watched pricking the back of his neck while he sets the table.


	3. The Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> upon reading the last chapter cecil pointed out how peter went to ophelia like 'we always communicate! thats why we're so healthy!' and then walked into the kitchen with juno and immediately proceeded to utterly fail at communication which made me laugh bc that wasnt intentional

Dinner is, as it always is when Juno cooks, delicious.

He’d even gone to the trouble of preparing a Brahmese dish, which impresses Ophelia – Nureyev can tell by the way her eyebrows raise in quiet acknowledgement when she sees the food spread out on the table.

Peter spares a few words to the tune of being thankful they are all together, of the miracle it is that he and Ophelia get to meet at last, and then they fall into quiet eating.

A bad feeling is radiating off Juno that makes Nureyev’s spine stiff with anxiety. He should say something, he thinks, before Ophelia catches on to the tension between them, but when he opens his mouth to try, no words come out.

“So, Juno,” Ophelia says suddenly, “Tell me more about yourself.”

Juno puts his fork down on the plate, “Uhh… I’ve never really known how to respond when people say that. What do you, uh… wanna know?”

Opehlia sits back in her chair and smiles, “Well. Where to begin? Tell me about your family. Is there a sister-in-law I should start to get to know? Any siblings I can expect to see at the wedding?”

Peter sees Juno’s grip tighten on his fork, and goes to jump to his aid, “Juno’s family—”

“Nope,” Juno cuts him off, pops the ‘p’. Tension is written into the wrinkles around his eyes, the way his shoulders sit, “It’s just me.”

Ophelia raises both her eyebrows, “Well, that makes it difficult.”

“Makes… what difficult?” Peter asks, his voice coming out a little weak.

“I’d naturally supposed Juno would be taking your name,” Ophelia turns to him, “You being the last Nureyev.”

The room feels a little smaller around Peter suddenly. He’d never had a family line to think of before, let alone had he ever considered the possibility that he might be…. “The… last Nureyev.”

“But if you’ve no siblings to speak of, no cousins,” Ophelia directs to Juno, “That makes you the last Steel, hm?”

The way Juno seems to get tighter around the edges tells Peter that this is something that has crossed Juno’s mind many times before. “Yeah. Family name ends with me. Good riddance,” he says, a little dryly. “Maybe I’ll finally shake off the curse that seems to follow us around.”

“Don’t say that,” Peter frowns at Juno, “Your name is beautiful, darling, I’ve always thought it suited you marvellously. It’d be a shame to see you give it up.”

“So you’d be known as Peter Steel?” Ophelia turns back to him, “An ex-thief named Steel.”

“It is… somewhat on the nose,” Peter admits, “But that’s part of its charm. Oh, what does it matter? It’s not as though I spent much time ever being Peter Nureyev in the first place.”

Ophelia looks a little stricken at that, and Peter shuts his mouth abruptly.

It’s Juno’s turn to leap to his rescue. He shoots a nervous glance at Ophelia, then reaches across the table to take Peter’s hand in his. “Peter, your name has always meant so much to you. You’ve told me how it was all you had to keep you going out on the streets of Brahma. It’s still one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever been given. I’ve treasured it for years, and I’d be honoured to be allowed to share it with you.”

Peter meets the warm brown of Juno’s eye, and feels a little flutter in his chest. The weight of Juno’s words closes around his neck like a chokehold. He swallows down the feeling – he refuses to cry at the dinner table. “I… didn’t know you felt that way.”

Juno goes a little flushed. He breaks eye contact abruptly and shrugs, withdrawing his hand. “Never came up, I guess. I dunno. Juno Nureyev does sound pretty weird.”

Peter laughs, “It does.”

“I think it’s because that’s what I called you for so long. It feels like I’m taking your first name, not your last.” Juno clears his throat and gives Peter one last glance, “I, uh,” he says, “could get used to it.”

“We’ll talk about it more closer to the wedding,” Peter says, and Juno nods at his plate.

Peter sits back in his chair and feels Ophelia’s eyes on him. He picks up his fork, hoping if he eats fast enough the conversation she no-doubt wants to have with him may be delayed.

Ophelia does take her attention off Nureyev, but what comes out of her mouth next makes him wish she hadn’t.

“When do I get to take you wedding dress shopping?” she asks Juno, who promptly chokes over the food in his mouth.

“We were thinking matching suits, actually,” Nureyev says quickly, and then powers through before Ophelia can continue this line of questioning, “Let’s drop the wedding talk for now. Mother, why don’t you tell me more about… Mom? Lilith, I mean.”

Ophelia seems to shrink back in her seat. Nureyev is suddenly vividly reminded that despite the command she seems to hold over them both, Ophelia Nureyev is merely an old woman.

“Lilith,” she says, quietly. “Of course.”

If figuring out how he should feel about his alive mother was difficult, this is twice as bad. From the stories Ophelia tells, Lilith seemed like a beautiful person. Perhaps a little nervous -- maybe that’s where Peter gets it from -- but good-hearted, sharp-witted, and sweet. Talking about her clearly makes Ophelia upset, and Lilith was his mother, so it follows that Peter should be as well, but…

Well. He is meant to feel strongly about these people, but he doesn’t. He wants to -- he wants to be overcome with love for his mother and heartbroken over his other mother’s death, he wants to relate to the stories Ophelia tells of a small boy with glasses too big for him, toddling around his parents’ kitchen while they cook breakfast.

But they’re stories about other people. It’s impossible for Nureyev to imagine his childhood as… cosy. Comfortable, and loved. He can’t see himself as a child with a family. What he knows of his childhood is too starkly different to exist in the same stretch of time.

He collects the stories up anyway, and tries not to wonder how different his life would be if the boy in Ophelia’s stories was the one sitting at this table.

“I’ll get the plates,” Juno says, when Ophelia makes to stand up. “You’re our guest. Why don’t you two go pick out a movie for us all to watch and I’ll join you when I’m finished packing up?”

Juno takes a stack of plates into the kitchen, and Nureyev braces himself for whatever Ophelia is going to say to him now that they’re alone again.

But she only gives him a smile and says, “I do hope the wedding goes ahead. He’s very nice.”

Peter glows.

Nureyev asks Ophelia what her favourite movie is, and is thrilled when she lists a title he himself is familiar with. They download the stream and, when Juno comes in from the kitchen, start the movie. Ophelia only gets halfway through the movie before she begins to doze off, and Peter nudges her awake to help her get to her room.

Then there’s just the two of them.

“Would you like to finish the movie?” Peter asks when he walks back into the lounge.

“To be honest, I’m kind of exhausted,” Juno is cleaning up their wine glasses from the coffee table, “are you okay if we just… go to bed?”

“Of course,” Peter claps his hands and the monitor turns off. 

They brush their teeth side by side in the mirror, and Peter stares blankly at a toothpaste fleck on the glass and tries desperately to bury the icky feeling in his gut.

A lot of things have changed today. He’s been highly on edge for a long while. He’s overthinking. But he hid his concerns so easily from Juno earlier in the kitchen… is it possible that Juno’s been hiding his own doubts for months? Years?

Juno leaves after brushing his teeth and Peter finishes his routine, rubbing some anti-wrinkle cream into his tired skin. He’s stopped trying to dye his greys, and Juno’s working with him on the wrinkle thing, but… for now, the routine comforts him.

Juno’s already in bed when Peter switches off the bathroom light and steps out. He strips out of his clothes and slides into bed beside him as Juno flicks off the bedside lamp.

There’s a moment of silence as the sheets rustle into place.

Juno rolls onto his side in the blankets. His hand comes to rest on Peter’s stomach, “So,” he says, “should we debrief? Or leave it til the morning?”

Nureyev closes his eyes. The presence of Juno’s touch -- even something as simple as a flat-palmed hand over his centre -- is enough to still his mind for just a moment.

Then it’s not enough, and Peter knows with a sinking certainty that it’s unlikely he’ll be able to sleep tonight, anyway. He sighs, “Might as well do it now.”

“Okay,” Juno says. He’s got on his soothing voice, the one he uses when he’s being gentle with Nureyev, and it’s terribly effective. “So. How’s… meeting your mother?”

“To be quite honest with you, dear, it’s--” Peter stops short of the words. He flails for them for a moment, before a breathless laugh escapes out of his mouth, “the strangest experience I think I’ve ever been through.”

Juno hums a little laugh. He shuffles closer Peter, his breath ghosting over his ear, “Yeah, I think that’s fair enough. How are you feeling?”

“Overwhelmed. A little numb, really. I can hardly make sense of anything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. It’s as though I’ve just met a stranger, and she’s barged in and started appraising my life, analysing my decisions, meddling with the love of my life. The way she interrogated you at dinner, putting pressure on you about your family, your name…”

“She’s nosy,” Juno says, matter-of-factly, “it’s alright. In fact, it reminds me a little of someone else I know.” He nudges Peter, “You tried talking to me about my brother and psychoanalysed the shit outta my name when we first met, remember?”

“Oh God,” Peter says, “was I really like that?”

“A little,” Juno kisses Peter’s cheek quickly, “but it wasn’t that bad. I got used to your curiosity. And look at where we are now, huh? Don’t worry about your Mom. Meeting parents is always awkward the first time when you’re a future inlaw. Trust me.”

Peter frowns. He lays his hand over Juno’s on his stomach and squeezes, and Juno shifts his head near Peter’s shoulder.

“Nureyev…” Juno says quietly, his voice a little hesitant like he’s scared he’s opening a dangerous can of worms. “We should talk. About earlier, in the kitchen.”

Nureyev turns his head to face Juno’s, shuffling back in the blankets a little. Juno shifts with him, until they each have a hand on the other’s side. Anchoring them to each other.

Nureyev squeezes gently at Juno’s side, and sighs, “Juno… my mother brought up the fact that you don’t seem very comfortable whenever anyone mentions the fact that we’re engaged.”

Juno doesn’t say anything – Peter can just make out the down-turn of his mouth in the low light. Nureyev bites his lip, and then continues, “Juno. I love you. And I know you love me too. But I don’t want you feeling like you’re trapped in a decision you don’t want—”

“I’m not _trapped_ , Nureyev—”

“There are other ways of showing our commitment. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t say—”

“Please don’t say what you’re about to say—”

“I’m just telling you,” Nureyev speaks firmly over him, “that if you don’t want to marry me anymore, it’s alright. I’ll call it off.”

Juno makes a soft exhalation like he’s taken a blow to the chest. He takes his hand from Nureyev’s side.

The room settles back into quiet before he speaks, “Fuck. I knew this would happen.”

“Knew… what would happen?”

“Knew you’d get tired of waiting eventually,” Juno slaps one hand over his face, dragging through his curls. His voice begins to raise and get shakier, in the way it does when he’s spiralling, “I knew I was pushing my luck, every day I thought to myself ‘today’s the day he’s going to give up on you, Steel’, and here we are, exactly like I fucking thought. I’ve been trying so hard to stop it going like last time—”

“Last time?”

“—that I feel like I’ve overcorrected, and I haven’t known how to talk to you about it without making exactly this happen so I’ve just been avoiding it and it’s been building up and all it did was make you doubt me anyway, and—”

“Juno, Juno,” Nureyev rolls him over so that he’s flat on his back in the bed, with Peter hovering over him. He’s shaking slightly, and his arms wrap around Peter’s torso like a child seeking comfort.

“Shh, shh,” Nureyev presses his face into Juno’s shoulder, “It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” Juno says, “I’m sorry I haven’t been talking to you and I’m sorry I made you feel like this isn’t what I want.”

Nureyev leans back up and cups the side of Juno’s face in his hand, “It’s not your fault. I should’ve been making more of an effort to check in with you, rather than shy away. It’s alright, Juno, I haven’t changed my mind on anything. It’s okay.”

Juno’s breath shakes when he breathes in, “Right. Overreacting. Sorry.”

“You’re not,” Peter says, stroking the side of Juno’s face, “But let me be clear in reassuring you. I only want to talk. I’m sorry for frightening you. I could’ve used a little more tact in bringing it up.”

“’S’okay.”

Nureyev sighs. He kisses Juno’s forehead, “Would you like to talk about it, then?”

“I guess I just—” Juno hesitates, his arms still wrapped around Nureyev, “Get flighty around commitment. When it came down to it with Diamond, in the weeks before our wedding… I guess the reality that it was really happening and not just some fantasy… I guess it made Diamond realise it wasn’t the right choice.”

“Juno—” Peter’s heart breaks.

“And I know things are different with you, I know,” Juno continues, his voice trembling. “I know. But I can’t help but know you, Nureyev, and when trouble arises…”

It’s Nureyev’s turn to sound punched. He presses his forehead to Juno’s, cups his face with his hands. He doesn’t think he could ever find the words to respond to Juno’s fears.

“I know it’s not fair on you,” Juno says. “You’ve changed so much for me. It’s stupid that I’m so scared, and I’ve made you wait for so long, but I haven’t known how to talk to you about it without hurting you.”

Peter strokes the side of Juno’s face with his thumbs. He shifts minutely to press his lips to Juno’s forehead. “It may not help to hear, but Juno, there is no decision I have felt more strongly about than proposing to you. You are my anchor, my love. When trouble arises, you are who I disappear back to.”

Juno squeezes. He shifts slightly so that he’s burying his head into Peter’s shoulder. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to move past this fear. I can’t ask you to be engaged to me for another three years,” he says, his voice small.

“Hm,” Peter says, “Then I say that we call the engagement officially off.”

Juno jolts under him, “Nureyev—”

“Trust me,” Peter soothes him. He sits up, straddling Juno’s hips, “I’ve called it off. It’s done.”

He can see, in the dim light, Juno’s eye staring up at him. It’s wide and hesitant, caught between panic and trust. Peter smiles down at him.

“Juno,” he says lowly, “Love of my life. You are my mornings and my night. Every minute I have spent by your side, I cherish. I want to spend the rest of my days with you. Juno Steel, will you marry me?”

Juno huffs out a quiet laugh. He sits up in bed so that Peter is sitting on his lap and Juno’s arms are around his waist. “Yes,” Juno says, “You damn fool. Of course I will.”

Peter kisses him, enthusiastically, and Juno sighs into his mouth, kissing him back just as hard. They clutch at each other when Nureyev has to pull away for air, pull each other into an embrace.

“There,” Peter says, “Now we’ve only been engaged for a few moments. I’d say we have another year at least before any big decisions need to be made.”

Juno laughs again and holds him tight. “I love you,” he kisses Peter’s shoulder, “I love you so much.”

Nureyev leans back in his grip, but only enough to guide their mouths together again.

* * *

Ophelia stays with them for a week.

During the days, either Juno or Nureyev or both take her with them on their daily errands, stopping to show her around some of Mars’s larger attractions. They watch movies at night for the first two nights or so – then Peter learns Ophelia knows how to play Rangian Street Poker, and the rest of the week’s nights are spent trading information while Juno plays solitaire and occasionally pipes up to correct Nureyev’s answers to Ophelia’s questions.

She stays nosy, which continues to be somewhat of a bone of contention between the two of them, while Juno teases lightly about their similarities. She’s a deep thinker, Peter learns, and the two of them often spend nights talking long after Juno retires for the night.

They have a lot of lost time to try and make up for.

In the end, a week feels simultaneously like barely enough time and too much all at once. Peter is both mentally overstimulated and desperate to try and answer all his questions in one go. But she’ll be back at the end of the year, and in the meantime…

In the meantime, Peter thinks, as he watches Juno and Ophelia say their goodbyes near the gate to Ophelia’s flight, there are parts of his own life that need his attention and care.

Juno hugs Ophelia, and she sends one last wave Peter’s way before she walks through the spaceport gates.

“How are you feeling?” Juno asks as he walks back over, and Peter puts an arm around his waist.

“She’ll be back,” he says, knows that barely begins to cover it, knows they’ll spend the next few days talking about the last week in depth, knows there’s time for all of that to come.

Juno knows too, by the way he nods and doesn’t push any further.

“What did she say to you?” Peter asks as they begin to walk back toward the carpark.

“Actually, I asked her something.”

“Oh?”

“You know your moms got married on April 15th?” Juno glances away, shrugs his shoulders. “I always liked the idea of a wedding in Spring. Might be something to consider. Carry on the family history, I guess.”

There’s no words that Peter can use to answer to that. So he answers the way he can and spins Juno around in his arms, pulling him in to a deep kiss in the middle of the spaceport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic was SO hard to write, i rlly struggled :') so if you enjoyed it, please let me know...


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